Page 2 of Goldflame

Also good.Let her fear what she’s created. Because I’m done being anyone’s puppet.

“Don’t,” Julian echoes, like I didn’t hear him the first time.

“Or what?”

“Don’t bestupid.”

I laugh. “Too late. I was stupid to ever think I could trust you, so why not kill me and end my misery?” I adjust my aim slightly, making sure Lady Harrow knows exactly where I’ll shoot if she moves. “Or do you not have the balls?”

I’m taking a huge risk—the part of him that thinks I’m a killer could be stronger than whatever part still cares for me.

“Aurelia,” he says with ice in his voice, but there’s also an unspoken plea behind it.

I see it then—the slight tremor in his trigger finger that mirrors my own. We’re both caught in this twisted dance, each waiting for the other to make the fatal misstep. Yet neither of us wants to. I don’t want more bloodshed now, though I’ll sure as hell be coming for Lady Harrow soon.

Just lower the gun. Give me an opening to leave.

“What’s wrong?” I push harder. “Can’t shoot someone who’s looking you in the eye? Your father never had that problem. Or, wait. My mistake—do you need to rape me first while your mother watches? You can be Lucian’s true copy.”

That gets a reaction from Lady Harrow, her left eye twitching and the corners of her mouth pulling inward like someone stitched them with thread. It’s subtle but very satisfying.

Julian also reacts, his jaw clenching so hard I can almost hear his teeth crack. “Last chance,” he says. “Put the gun down.”

“Do it!” I shout. “Add me to the body count.” I gesture with my chin toward Adrian. “At least then Iwon’t have to live knowing how easily you believed that bitch’s lies.”

Something flickers across his face—doubt maybe, or pain. Vengeance.

His finger tenses on the trigger, squeezing slightly, and my heart stops.

I was wrong. He wasn’t bluffing.

Oh god.He’s actually going to do it. I’m about to join Adrian on this blood-soaked?—

The door bursts open with enough force to crack the wall.

“Stop!” Valentine’s voice thunders through the room, and for a moment, nobody moves. His dark eyes sweep over the scene like he’s cataloging evidence—Adrian’s body, the now-red carpet, Lady Harrow’s fake terror, Julian’s gun pointed at my heart, my own aimed at his mother.

The moment stretches like a razor’s edge, ready to draw blood. Then Julian and Lady Harrow both turn toward Valentine, their movements synchronized in that instinctive way predators share. The gun in Julian’s hand wavers, just a fraction, but it’s enough.

Enough for my muscles to recognize their chance before my mind catches up.

I shove my gun in the waistband of my sweats and launch myself forward, riding the surge of adrenaline like a wave of madness. If I’m going to die tonight, it won’t be cowering before Lady Harrow or Julian. It won’t be on my knees beside Adrian. No—if death wants me, it’ll have to wrestle me down fighting.

My shoulder connects with Julian’s chest, the impactjarring through my bones. His finger squeezes the trigger, but I’m already pushing his arm up. The shot cracks overhead, the bullet hitting the ceiling as we struggle.

His strength overwhelms mine—it always has—but I’m desperate in a savage kind of way, which gives me a little boost. My nails dig into his hand, seeking tendons, trying to force his fingers to release the gun. He grunts as his muscles strain against mine.

This close, I can smell his cologne mixing with gunpowder. I can feel his heart hammering against my chest through our clothes. Once, this closeness would’ve made me wet and aching. Now it only fuels my anger.

“Let the fuck go,” he snarls, but I just dig in harder.

We spin, locked together. My back hits the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs. Stars burst behind my eyes, but I don’t release my grip. I can’t. The moment I do, I’m dead.

Valentine’s presence fills the space between us, his tall frame moving with that military precision I know so well. Even at this hour, he’s in his signature black pants and T-shirt, gun holstered at his hip. The scent of coffee clings to him—he must’ve been in the middle of his fourth or fifth cup when he heard the shot.

His hands work to separate our death grip on the weapon. “Enough!”

His voice carries the weight of years of command, that familiar gruff tone that raised me, taught me to shoot, showed me how to survive in this world of wolves. But I’m beyond hearing reason. Beyond caring about anything except making sure Julian can’t shoot me. Is he really so eager to become the monster his father was?

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